


Longshoreman

by verulam (krynon)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Canon Disabled Character, Explicit Sexual Content, Loss of Limbs, M/M, Oral Sex, Pirates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-08-10 20:55:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7860778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krynon/pseuds/verulam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Junkrat defects from the navy because he hates order as much as Lt. Reyes hates fun. Pretty soon after that, he embarks on the search for Captain Morrison’s treasure.</p><p>A story about names and freedom and finding family. Also a story about greed and revenge and fucking the first man that catches your eye when you make port.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: The Victory

**Author's Note:**

> Thank u to the lovely [ isis ](http://sleazyfemmedad.tumblr.com) for the beta!

Morrison was a good captain. Ish. He was fairer than most; plenty of people on board The Victory would’ve been rejected elsewhere. Especially in the Navy. 

Junkrat and his twitches, his tics and his tumultuous relationship with the Admiralty; Lieutenant Reyes and his shady past, Amelie and hers. It was, he supposed, scrubbing hard at the deck, an odd thing that Lt. Reyes and Midshipman Lacroix had gone so far as they had. Neither were British, though both were very good at their jobs, and were, in his opinion, fuckin’ terrible bastards. 

Reyes was a creepy one, shrouded in shadow most of the time, and always ready to rat people out. Never seemed as though he liked the Captain much, either, which was odd given that Junkrat was thoroughly convinced there were some trysts going on there. Disappearing into the Captain’s quarters at odd hours, groans echoing about the ship? They weren’t really even bothering to hide it. When it came to Reyes and Lacroix, he really bloody doubted Morrison’s judgement.

Though, Junkrat guesses, turning portside to scrub at a patch of dirt, nationality hardly seemed a big issue with the Captain. Order, on the other hand, that was Morrison’s thing. The Victory had a sense of hierarchy so ingrained in its hull that it hung heavy in the salty air.

The thing about the Captain though, other than his employment of people that seemed particularly unsavoury, was his possessions. Captain Morrison had a key. And the key led to a map.

And the map, so they said, led to treasure.

Junkrat likes treasure. S’why he’d joined the navy in the first place; the pay. It wasn’t cheap to train for gunsmithing, that was for sure. It’s also why he bothered to make prosthetics, aside from the fact that he needed one. Helped to earn that extra money, and it certainly helped him stay out of trouble and in the Captain’s good books. He sits back on his haunches, staring at his peg leg and tapping at the almost-splintered edges.

The ship clears a wave, and he blinks, softly, almost entranced by the heavy sway and the beating sunlight.

“Why-” Suddenly, Lucio is crouched next to him with a bucket in his hands. Junkrat jumps, twitches and makes a high-pitched noise in the back of his throat. “Sorry Jamie! Didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, putting an arm on his shoulder. Junkrat takes a breath and tries to force himself to relax.

“You didn’t,” heaves Junkrat, forcing himself to calm down. “Y’didn’t scare me at all.”

“Sure,” says Lucio. “I buy that,” he laughs. “Really though Jamie, why don’t you make a new one?” 

“A new…?” Junkrat blinks at him. “What?”

“A new leg,” Lucio says, gesturing at the edges of his peg-leg. It really was on the way out, bulging out from between the metal bands. “Why not get something better?”

Junkrat squints at him. “I like my leg just the way it is. S’got character. Grace.”

Lucio squints right back. “I’m not sure it does, Jamie.”

Junkrat stands and brushes some of the bigger soap bubbles off himself. “Yes, it does. I’m distinguished. Listen, are you going to do the rest o’ this? There’s not much left and my leg’s givin’ me a bit o’ fuckery,” He says. His leg does make him distinguished, anyway. Marked him out as Jamison ‘Junkrat’ Fawkes, easy to see in a crowd. Same with his perpetual layer of grime and grease. And his hair, too. He had no idea how Lacroix managed to keep hers so clean. Made him nervous, the cleanliness of that hair.

Lucio nods, dropping to the floor and grabbing the sponge from Junkrat with a sense of urgency.

“What?” Junkrat asks, as Lucio pointedly avoids his gaze and gets to scrubbing. “What? What’s got you?”

“The Lieutenant,” says Lucio, out of the corner of his mouth, still staring directly at the boards of the deck. “Staring right at you.”

And as Junkrat looks up, sure enough, Reyes is staring over Lacroix’s shoulder. Junkrat wants to stare back, but the intensity is almost painful in his eye sockets. The ship clears a wave, the eye contact breaks, and Junkrat blinks. 

When Midshipman Lacroix laughs at something Reyes says, even though he hasn’t seen either of them talk, he shivers. Not for the first time, he thinks that there was something not quite right with Reyes and Lacroix. There was something not right at all.

***

“Shore leave next week, my lovelies, and do tell! What are we all getting up to?” Tracer asks brightly. She’s a bubbly little human, shaking back and forth as she sits almost like Junkrat does. They all sit on deck, cross legged in a little triangle. They are, if anyone asks, on a short break. Not that anyone paid attention to that on days like these. The wind was low and the sun was high. He feels the warmth of it on his skin. It was an unusual luxury to be able to feel the sun through the whipping wind, so they’re making the most of it.

She makes a noise in the back of her throat when nobody replies. “C’mon, are we all going to be making the most of our time off?”

“D’pends where we make port,” offers Junkrat. “Prob’ly gonna see if I can find someone to rebind my leg, though. Bugger’s being difficult.” The metal needed to be restrapped around it, bulging as the wood was, and part of the topmost metal band was starting to tilt upwards into the flesh of his thigh.

Tracer nods, still shifting back and forth as she sits. “D’you know what I’m looking forward to?”

“What?” Junkrat asks her, smiling despite himself. Lena was a regular ray of sunshine, easy and bright. One of the better parts of life aboard The Victory.

“Cranberries,” she says, smiling widely. “I haven’t had any since we made port the time before last.”

Zarya, standing nearby, makes an odd noise. “Ah, cranberries,” she says. “It has been a while. I miss them.” She raises an eyebrow at Tracer, a smile on her face. “You should not get so excited, Oxton. It is still a week,”

“Less than,” retorts Tracer, smiling back. “Shore leave starts on Monday, and I am counting down the days!”

Junkrat doesn’t know how she does it. He’d lost track of time the moment he’d stepped aboard The Victory. Zarya shakes her head at the three of them and carries on wiping the rail. 

“Wonder what Reyes does on shore leave,” says Tracer.

“No idea. Fuck the captain?” Offers Junkrat. “Prob’ly nothing good. Man’s like the Grim bloody Reaper. Worse than Davy Jones, I’m certain.” They laugh at that, but only after checking over their shoulders that he wasn’t hanging around.

“I’m going to busk,” says Lucio, leaning in towards Tracer. “I’ll play you some songs if you ask nicely,” he says, and she giggles.

“Oh, yeah? You’d have to work hard to impress me,” she says, placing a hand on her chest. “I’m a classically trained singer.” Junkrat squints at her.

“Really? You don’t strike me as the type,” he says.

“Oh, for sure. Wanna hear me sing?”

When Lucio nods at her encouragingly, she smiles the most mischievous smile Junkrat has seen in his life, and belts out a shriek. 

Lucio yells, clapping his hands to his ears.

Suddenly, Reyes is hanging over their shoulders, looming and aggressive. “Oxton,” he says, voice ominous. “What are you doing?”

Collectively, they scramble to their feet, Junkrat’s leg almost slipping against the wet planks.

“Uh,” she says, smug smile disappearing off her face. “Singing, Lieutenant Reyes?”

Reyes frowns severely at her, overbearing as he stand. He wasn’t nearly as tall as Junkrat, but he seems to tower over all three of them. “I’ll tell you what it wasn’t, Oxton.”

“W-” Tracer swallows. “What, Lieutenant?”

“It wasn’t work, Oxton, that’s what it wasn’t.”

Junkrat rolls his eyes.

“Fawkes,” Reyes snarls, “Do that again and I’ll have you thrown in the brig for insubordination.”

Junkrat swallows, does what he should, and stays quiet. Reyes seems to be on the warpath, anger written in his stance, and while he hates to follow orders, there were times and places to try and get away with things. This wasn’t one of them.

“Zaryanova,” calls Reyes. Zarya steps over immediately, cloth clutched in her hand. 

“Yes, Lieutenant,” she returns.

“Give Santos and Oxton something to do,” and Reyes must do it deliberately, because he can see Lucio struggling with the urge to say it, to correct him, but he doesn’t. He sees the phrase “Lúcio Correia dos Santos” written all over his face, but the current of hierarchy ran deep on The Victory.

“Lieutenant,” says Junkrat, already resigned when Reyes turned to him. It wouldn’t be unlike Reyes to just send him to the brig anyway.

“To the bilge,” he growls, “You’re bucketing.”

He fills with dread. Fuck.

The bilge was a nightmare, toxic and dirty and wet. Not that the rest of the ship wasn’t wet, because it was. But rather, the bilge was soaking with oil and filth and salty water that stung in the eyes. 

He heads down to the bilge, bucket in hand, declining Zarya’s offer of a scarf as he goes past. He could deal with a bit of filth, after all.

Very soon, his hands ache, his head hurts from the stench, and his stomach turns every time the old girl leaps over a wave. Fuckin’ ocean. Fuckin’ Reyes. Fuckin’ buckets.

He hauls yet another pail of water up the steps, then up the second steps, then chucks it over the side. He hates this job, so much. He breathes heavily, arms stinging and nerves in his leg sparking, throbbing, heaving in rancid air and climbing the steps, again, and then the second steps, again, and winces as the sludge in his bucket splashes on the side of the ship. The Victory already smelled bad, despite all of Reyes’ attempts to get him to clean it keel to bowsprit. Never felt good to make it worse, even if he was mostly used to it by now.

He trudges back down the steps, head bowed and wishing he’d accepted Zarya’s offer. It wouldn’t do much to protect against the noxious fumes, but it would stop it from getting in his mouth, at least,.

And so Junkrat buckets. Junkrat buckets so much he stays bucketing through a storm, all the way through until they make port. He stops to eat, sleep, to relieve himself, to hear a quick snapshot of conversation about how far from port they were, and that’s it. Junkrat commits to the bucket, day in, day out. For rolling his eyes.

Eventually, what seems like years later, he hears the Captain’s voice.

“Jamison,” calls Morrison, as he hauls yet another bucket up and out of the bilge, “Job for you!”

“Does it involve more buckets?” he hollers back, tipping it out. 

He hears the Captain laugh. At least Reyes wasn’t captain, yet. Morrison, despite his Lieutenant, had a sense of humour. “No, Fawkes, you’re to check on the powder store. We’re making port; I need to know how much is left!”

“How? It’s dark in there and it goes bang,” he yells, filling another bucket. “Can’t light anything! Not that I’m complaining, just-”

“It’s all wet, Fawkes, we’re just passing a storm,” Morrison calls. “It’s going to be fine!”

***

Whilst Junkrat finishes his last bucket, most of the crew alight the ship. They head to port. It hadn’t been their first choice: Tortuga was a pirate port, a notorious one, but with the storm having ravaged their supplies and blown them far off course from Port Royal, there was little else available without more sailing. And the ship needed repairs too, and Junkrat would know. He’d been hauling water out of her for days.

They head off the ship, and Junkrat heads down below.

The cargo hold was below the brig, nestled away just aside from where Junkrat’s spent nearly a week bucketing. He’s still bitter: he hardly felt it was a fair punishment for rolling his eyes. His back aches. He tuts, and grabs at his tinderbox. 

The tinderbox lived in his pocket, and was one of his favourite possessions, along with his leg. A firesteel, a few sticks of sulphured wood, flint and a little bit of kindling. It fit in his pocket too, which he appreciated. And it was watertight, which was an unusual privilege on a ship like The Victory. To have anything dry was a win in and of itself. 

It was almost a security blanket, resting heavy in his pocket. Regardless, he raises his hands, stinging with the cold, and strikes a match, then returns the tinderbox to his pocket.

He heads down the steps, cradling his flame, then steps out into the cargo hold, looks around and-

The powder isn’t dry at all.

He stops, breath caught in his throat, and-

One step back, two steps back, legs and spine aching and-

He doesn’t quite realise what’s happening. It all shudders into life before he can blink. There’s a split second, a moment, where his leg slips. He falls backward.

And that’s it.

The world goes bang.


	2. Act One: Will Alone Coulda Sunk It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the explosion washes over Junkrat like a wave. He drowns in it.
> 
> Later, he gets drunk in Tortuga, and meets a man called Captain Rutledge.

The blast blows him back and _up,_ and he’s glad he can see the sun before he dies.

“ _Fawkes!”_ He sees her say it rather than hears her, ears ringing and brain alight with fire and gunpowder smoke.

Zarya’s a good bo’sun. She tries to help, then spends a few minutes trying to dislodge him. She fails. He’s trapped under a mast.

It hurts.

It’s-

The ship is sinking.

He breathes deeply, heavily, gasps. It’s-

“Zarya,” he wails, and she looks up at him with shock. She’d thought him dead. Or unconscious, at least.

He grins, blood in his teeth, then grimaces as he tries to salute and finds that his arm doesn’t respond. He doesn’t look down. “Can’t get rid o’ me that easily,” he says, and then swallows when her eyes are drawn inexorably to his arm.

His arm, that he can’t move.

“ _Jamison,”_ she breathes, arms still attempting to heave at the bar trapping half of him to the slowly-sinking deck. He feels _detached,_ lost, at sea and alone. He feels like he’s half a man, lighter and separate, dissonant. He feels…

Well. He feels like he just blew himself up.

“ _Jamison!_ ” repeats Zarya, “Do not- do not go to sleep, Jamison,”

“Wasn’t plannin’ on it,” he slurs, heavy and light all at once. Then she turns and he thinks, ‘oh’, because-

The fact of the matter was this. He did not want to die alone.

“ _Zarya,”_ he yells, voice fractured at the edge. Zarya looks back at him, blinks, face ashen. Junkrat can barely see her, bleary and foggy through the sea spray and his stinging eyes.

“Don’t _go,_ ” he shrieks.

“I must-”

He can tell what she’s going to say before she says it.

“ _No!”_

“I _must inform the Captain,_ ” she repeats, muscles twitching vaguely. He looks up at her, and she looks down at him. It smells like fire.

“No!” he repeats. “ _Help me,”_ he begs, thrashing his legs.

He still feels… wrong. Like he’s missing, a part of a whole, a fraction. Urgency pumps through his veins anyway, adrenaline yelling at him from the sidelines.

“ _Don’t leave me,_ ” he says. There’s tears in his eyes, partly from the sea spray and partly from the fact his limbs must be on fire, they must be-

“I-”

He feels lighter by the second.

“The _Captain,_ ” says Zarya, and then she dives off the ship.

Junkrat thinks, not for the first time, that it was a terrible shame to die alone.

 

***

 

The infirmary is quiet.

Junkrat breathes deeply and tries not to think too much.

God knows how long he’s there for. His arm is bandaged and still stinging, aches and pains from a forearm he no longer had.

 

***

 

Nobody visits him.

It’s quiet, here.

 

***

 

The nurse comes and goes. Sometimes they change the dressing on his arm, sometimes they just look at it and make odd, motherly noises.

He refuses to look at the limb too closely.

 

***

 

Eventually, arm strapped into a hook and feeling slightly more alive than he had been, Junkrat snarls at the nurses to point him in the direction of port. He roars it, almost, voice cracked and hoarse at the edges.

Nobody had told him how he’d escaped the ship. He doesn’t want to know. He wants to pretend it never happened, that Zarya had never left him to _rot._ Or rather, that _Morrison_ had never caused it to happen in the first place. It helped, he supposed, that he could barely remember it. Just flashes of flame and sea spray. His eyes sting just thinking about it, tongue recoiling at remembered salt.

So, he thinks, trudging along to the port with a pistol in his hand, to recap: He’d been bucketing, Morrison had said that the powder was wet ( _liar,_ supplies his brain, helpfully), and then everything had gone to shit. And now he was one arm down and probably without a place to call home.

If the Navy even want him back after what he’s gonna do. He’s not going to go back regardless.

He stares angrily at the hook attached to his elbow. Useless.

Eventually he rounds a corner and finds himself in the centre of the dock, ships just as grand as The Victory and grander, moored just offshore.

No sign of The Victory though, which was odd. She was a large vessel, hard to miss in a crowd, and-

Ah.

The explosion.

His arm twinges.

“Okay,” He breathes.

He walks up to the edge of the small wooden pier. It’s empty. There’s barely anyone around at all; the loudest sound for miles the slow susurrus of the sea. He stares out into the distance. The dwindling sunlight reflects off the waves.

There must be treasure in these waters, left over from ships sunk in the port. Fires were common in Tortuga, warring factions intent on blowing eachother up. The Victory was just another in a long line of failed vessels. He looks down at the water, trying to peer through to the shallows where dead ships lay, but the sun is too bright and he gets a faceful of reflected light instead. He shrugs, and peers back out.

He did like the ocean. Loved it, in fact, adored it. He inhales a lungful of salty air and blows it out all at once. Tranquility, maybe, and calm, maybe. But free, certainly. He’d joined the navy to sail, after all. He’d joined the navy so he could _explore,_ find treasure and finally make something of himself, and above all to be _free._

He looks off the edge of the pier again, straight down into the depths, but catches a glimpse of his arm as he does. He scowls.

Fucking Morrison. Fucking _Victory. Fucking arm._

He’s almost blinking back tears when he hears a creak behind him and whirls around, gun up and stance startled.

He rears back, snarls and pitches forward, gun in his hand and something like revenge in his veins.

“ _You!”_ he yells, aiming and holding as steady as he can. “ _You! You told me-_ you _told me the powder was wet!”_

He’d gone back to the scene of the crime so he could shoot Morrison in the face.

 _Hierarchy_ . Hierarchy had _cost him his arm._

“Fawkes, you _fucking idiot, drop your weapon,_ ” roars Reyes, and Junkrat swings the gun on him instead.

“You _bastard,_ ” he growls, finger itchy on the trigger.

He hated them. He hated the whole fucking place, the entire wreck that now sat on the bottom of the sea, hated it _so much._ His arm- his _whole_ arm, the bicep and the elbow and the hook binding tightly to what remained of his forearm- aches.

“My _arm,_ ” he says, gesticulating, and the pair opposite him look at each other. Like they’re colluding, hatching secret plans. Bastards.

“ _Jamison,_ ” returns Morrison, hands up like he was taming some kind of _animal._ Junkrat does _not_ appreciate the implication, swings his gun again. Fuckin’ idiots thought they could fuck him up then _leave him in a hospital to rot_.

“ _You told me the powder was wet,_ ” he repeats.

He sees, out of the corner of his eye, Reyes raise his gun, so he howls out a noise he can barely _describe,_ aggressive and yelling and _torn:_ “ _No!”,_ and watches as Reyes slowly drops his gun again.

“Wise move, _Lieutenant,_ ” he growls, twitching back and forth where he stands. He feels, rather abruptly, like there’s butterflies in his stomach.

“ _Fawkes,_ ” says the Captain, tone sharp and ringing. “Stand down.”

“ _I’ll stand down when you bring my arm back from Davy Jones’_ -”

Morrison takes a step forward. “I said, _stand. Down._ ”

Junkrat bares his teeth. They’re jagged and sharp, and they must catch the light. “What if I don’t _want_ to?” He giggles, noise spilling from him despite himself as he twitches back and forth.

“Then I send word to the admiralty that you need to be taken in for attempted assault,” says Morrison, “Or attempted _murder,_ if you don’t lower that gun _right now._ ”

Junkrat thinks of branded men and pirates and deserters from the navy.

Gently, ever so gently, Junkrat lowers his gun.

“Give me the gun, Fawkes,” snarls Reyes, stepping forward. Behind them, Tracer and Lucio stand, awkward and visibly nervous. He…

This whole situation was _ridiculous._ He was feeling _bad_ for making his old crew nervous, when his _captain had nearly killed him._

“No,” replies Junkrat, too slowly, glaring at Reyes. “It’s mine,” and that much is true. It’s as much his as his tinderbox. He presses it into his leg, checking that it’s there, and bares his teeth again as Reyes narrows his eyes at the movement.

“Arsonist,” accuses Reyes, and once again Junkrat raises his gun, and aims it squarely at his head.

“ _Reyes,_ ” Morrison thwacks his arm with the side of his hand. “ _Now is not the time,”_

Reyes laughs. It's not a nice sound. “He’s not going to _shoot-_ ”

Junkrat cocks the gun.

Immediately, Reyes face goes ashen, hands flying up to protect his face. Bloody _Reaper,_ bastard, fucker deserved the shot-

“Fawkes,” says Morrison, placating with this palms ahead of his face, facing upwards and stance diminutive. “If you shoot now, you end up hanged.”

Quick as a flash, Junkrat’s head is turned, and suddenly there’s a gun pointed at _him_.

“ _Reyes!”_ snarls the Captain. “Lieutenant, _stop this right now.”_

They stare at each other, Junkrat’s hand shaking and Reyes’ perfectly still. He’d always been like that, unearthly somehow, calmer and more violent both at once.

Behind him, Tracer places a hand on her gun, and something inside Junkrat twitches.

“ _Jamison,_ ” growls Reyes, gun still trained on him.

Tracer’s hand folds around the handle of her pistol.

The twitching thing in Junkrat snaps.

He heaves a breath and drops the gun.

“Wise move,” parrots Reyes. Junkrat almost raises his pistol again in retaliation, but instead watches as Tracer’s hand relaxes on her gun.

When Reyes drops his weapon, Junkrat shoves past them, brushing Morrison’s hand off him as he goes.

“Where are you going?” calls Lucio, as he pointedly avoids eye contact with them, staring intently at the floor.

“Port,” growls Junkrat, and he stalks off as the sun finally sets.

 

***

 

He stumbles into the port, stumbles into the path of a man in a wide-brimmed hat, and then promptly stumbles into bed with him.

Sometimes, in life, it really was that simple.

 

***

“Well  _ hello _ there,” he says, slurring a little. His words are a bit lilted at the edges, said through alcohol-tinged lips. 

“‘Lo,” says the big guy. He's the biggest man at the bar, and there's an air of power to him: the bar is crowded, but nobody sits next to him. Except Junkrat, of course, who places himself as close as possible. 

He just threatened to shoot the captain and he's had a few drinks; he's feeling a little  _ on edge.  _ Dangerous games seem appealing, right now. 

“So, m’name’s Junkrat. Fawkes. Or, Jamison, if y’prefer,” Junkrat offers, hand curled around a glass. He stares at the glass, eyes a little lost. He blinks, shakes his head, runs his hand through his hair. “Don’t suppose your lookin’ for a good time, huh, pal?”

The man looks at him seriously, face mostly obscured by his hat.

After a few seconds longer than was probably strictly necessary, Junkrat assumes he should probably leave. He’s not one to back down, though, so he downs the rest of his drink, and stares right back.

He makes what he assumes is shadowy eye contact with the man, keeping his twitchy stare as steady as he can.

After a very long time, where the bar seems to be moving in slow motion, and the only fast movement is the twitch of Junkrat’s leg, the big guy opens his mouth.

“Sure,” he says, and Junkrat laughs.

 

***

 

They walk together out of the pub, Junkrat supported on his side as they go.

“I _hate_ ‘em,” slurs Junkrat, “ _Filthy_ navy bastards, the lot of them! Left me for _dead.”_

The big guy looks down at him. He appreciates the height difference, that the man was taller than he was. Didn’t happen often.

“What’s your _name_ , sailor?” He asks, leaning on the man’s side and tripping a little. “See, _I like you_ . I like you,” he says, “And it would be a _great honour_ ,” he hiccups, “To know your name.”

“Mako,” provides the man. Junkrat grins up at him. “Or Roadhog. Or Captain Rutledge.”

Junkrat squints at him, something inside him twisting. “You’re a captain? You’re not with the navy, are you?”

Roadhog snorts. “No, I’m not with the navy.”

He pulls his sleeve up to expose the scald of a pirate brand.

“No,” Junkrat agrees, mood lifted a little, “Not a navy man, then.”

“Not anymore,” he rumbles.

“Don’t blame you, mate, don’t blame you at _all._ What happened?”

Mako looks at him. It’s a deep kind of stare, the kind that convinced Junkrat that he was being looked _through._ It’s almost, for a second, like he’s transparent. “I left,” says Roadhog.

“....Mhm,” says Junkrat, after a second of feeling lost at sea. He sways as they walk. “Not a man of many words, are you? S’fine, I got enough words for the both of us.”

This time, Roadhog smiles. Score. His teeth catch the yellow light: he’s got a nice smile, as over-toothed smiles went, and Junkrat grins right back. Junkrat’s smiles were over-toothed too, so they matched. He giggles.

“Our teeth,” he says, pulling up his lips to show his sharp incisors. “We match!”

Roadhog’s returning grin is wide.

They round a corner, and suddenly, Junkrat slips on a wet cobble. His peg-leg flies out from under him, leaving him flailing and disoriented, and when Roadhog grabs him and places him upright, he smiles even wider.

“Good catch,” says Junkrat, wiping his sweaty hand on his shorts as he sways back and forth. It was very hot, even with the summer sun long disappeared behind the horizon.

“Y’alright?” he asks, frowning down.

“Sure!” He keeps a smile fixed on his face, though it twitches at the edges despite himself. “Not that long ago I lost m’arm, I can deal with a little slip,” he mumbles, staring at the floor. Roadhog doesn’t quiz him on it, thank God, and by the time they’ve walked to the inn, he’s smiling again.

 

***

 

"...An’ that’s how Tracer ended up on The Victory! I’m tellin’ you mate, she was a good ship! Fuckin’ _reeked_ though, not that I mind, just that it’s impossible for your nose to have a rest… The fuckin’ _hammocks_ mate, you have no idea-”

Roadhog laughs. It’s a gravelly, musical noise, and so compelling that Junkrat would swear he can feel it through the floor. They walk together up the rickety stairs, step after step still slightly unbalanced from the odd weight of his arm.

“No, I’m serious!” laughs Junkrat, “Those _hammocks,_ they were the worst thing, worse than the bilge, I _swear_ ! No idea how the _Captain_ kept so clean…”

If his voice turns acidic and biting at the mention of Morrison, then Roadhog doesn’t mention it. It’s nice. Back on The Victory, he’d’ve been questioned for that. If the good Lieutenant (and his thoughts _do_ turn to acid then) had been nearby and heard, he’d have been told to go straight to the bilge, probably. If he’d said anything _explicit_ about the lying fuck (that cost him his _arm,_ hollers his hindbrain) then he’d be sent to the brig, and that was a fate worse than buckets.

Junkrat hated hierarchy (and, admittedly, the brig)  almost as much as he loved treasure.

They cross the threshold to Roadhog’s room, and Junkrat pats at his pocket to check on the tinderbox. It was, of course, still present and correct. He’d checked it last not twenty minutes ago, but it always helped to press it reassuringly into his thigh.

“So,” says Junkrat, as Roadhog removes his hat and places it on the stand. His hair is white, bleached by age or the sun, and now he can finally see his face properly, Junkrat is _not_ disappointed. He’s brown, face thick and eyebrows heavy. He’s _handsome._ “Wanna fuck?”

Roadhog stands, arms loose by his sides and eyes smiling. “Sure,” he says.

 

***

 

Roadhog presses a huge finger against him, making Junkrat buck back. He groans, one of Roadhog’s hands stroking lightly across his dick.

It’s exactly how he’d imagined it would be.

The slick is making his ass sticky, hot where Roadhog is pushing a finger in, and he groans again at the stretch.

“ _Fuck,”_ and Roadhog laughs. “Not-” he gasps, “Not _funny!_ Your fingers… _big._ ”

It’s not the most eloquent moment of his life, but then again there was a huge finger in his ass and a hand at his dick, too. He’s stretched over Roadhog’s lap, body exposed and limbs extended, hand clawing at the rug beneath. His entire torso is supported, held up by _one hand._ The guy’s _strong_.

“Good,” he says, as Roadhog gently twitches his finger up into a bright spot of pleasure. “ _Good,”_ he mumbles, face pressed into Mako’s thighs.

“Y’know, Mako-” he cuts off, gasping as the hands stroke a particularly sensitive spot, hot and thrumming with pleasure. “‘S an unusual name y’got there,” he pauses, revelling in the bright-warm feeling, “Actually, unusual _names_. Plural. Large- Large number of- Unh,” He stops himself, gasping.

“Not from around here,” rumbles Roadhog, and he giggles as the vibrations of his words tremble through to his sensitive skin.

“No?” asks Junkrat, shivering, mouth lolling open. “Why… _oh!_ Why-” he swallows. “Why are you here then?”

He can’t see Roadhog smile, but he can hear it in his voice. “Treasure,”

“I... “ he groans out, dick hard against Roadhog’s thigh and brain spinning, “That’s… the same…”

God, he can barely talk, winded and moaning. It’s hot, Roadhog’s body heat and the warmth of the balmy night creeping through the windows. It strikes him suddenly that people could probably _hear_ him, down below and outside but…

Roadhog sparks another line of pleasure into his spine, and he thinks that he could live with people hearing.

“Captain had treasure,” he mumbles, tongue heavy and slightly delirious with it, “Used to keep a key to a chest… always said I’d steal it one day-”

 

And that’s when it hits him.

 

Suddenly his sex drive is pushed to the side. He scrambles up, dislodging Roadhog’s hands and shoving himself upright as Roadhog makes a noise of disappointment in the back of his throat.

“ _T_ _he key,”_ he says, breathless, hole twitching obscenely in absence. Junkrat’s busy having a _wonderful_ idea to care.

“You said you were a captain?” Junkrat asks, smiling widely and panting.

“...Yeah?” says Roadhog, perplexed, arms hanging by his side.

“Any chance you’d be up for a treasure hunt?”

“ _What?”_ asks Roadhog, frowning and looking slightly bereft. Junkrat’s cock twinges at the idea of someone _missing_ having sex with him.

“Well, Roadie, I may have a way to earn us some _money._ ” Junkrat grins.  “We’re going to steal Captain Morrison’s chest.”

Roadhog blinks up at him.

“Oh _yes,_ ” he slurs. “We’re gonna get us some _treasure._ ”

 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! you can find me [here](http://verulams.tumblr.com) or [ here!](http:verulamfic.tumblr.com)


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